


A Better Fate Than Wisdom

by satb31



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Fate & Destiny, Love Confessions, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:43:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prouvaire has always secretly loved Joly -- and on the night before the barricades fall, his secret is revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Fate Than Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazyinjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/gifts).



> My contribution to Barricade Day, inspired by a tweet from Chris McCarrell about sharing secrets with Prouvaire at the top of the barricade.
> 
> The title comes from e.e. cummings.

Prouvaire has always loved Joly.

He cannot remember a time when he did not love Joly, when he was not spending his time in his rooms writing odes about a love for someone who bore more than a coincidental resemblance to the young medical student. He adored everything about him — his devotion to his profession, his self-deprecating sense of humor, his crooked smile — and he lived for the times they would spend time together, walking around the city or dining together in the evenings. He had even bestowed a nickname on him — Jolllly, with a reference to soaring away on four wings.

Which was exactly how Prouvaire felt every time he saw Joly.

But for months, even years now, he had been condemned to watch from across the Musain as Joly sits with Grantaire and Bossuet, drinking too much wine and joking about their various lovers. He wished he were a bolder man, that he could get up the nerve to cross the room and join them, even though he did not really have any exploits of his own to share.

He listened to Courfeyrac teasing Joly about how he and Bossuet share everything and felt sick to his stomach. And when he overheard Bahorel giving Joly advice as to which trousers he should purchase in order to impress Musichetta, he took to his bed as soon as he arrived at home, burying his face in his pillow to try to banish the thought of Joly being with his lovers.

It is a secret he wanted to keep from his friends — they swooned over his emotion-laden poems about love, after all. How were they to know that he had never really known what it is like to truly be in love — or at least to be in love with someone who loves him in return? Not to mention he knew they would at best mock him, and at worst, determine the two of them to be incompatible, seeing Prouvaire’s melancholy a poor companion for Joly’s happiness, or their eccentricities to be simply too much for a pair of lovers to reconcile.

But these were all the reasons Prouvaire loved him.

Only Combeferre knew about Prouvaire’s feelings. It was a knowledge acquired by accident — he was thumbing through Prouvaire’s portfolio one day, looking for something he had written on philosophy, and came upon a poem Prouvaire had written about Joly. When Prouvaire approached and found Combeferre reading it, his eyes widening as he read, he snatched it out of his hands quickly.

“Prouvaire, is that — is that poem about me?” Combeferre asked, flushing to the roots of his blond hair.

Prouvaire shook his head violently. “No!” he exclaimed, although when he noticed how taken aback Combeferre was at his vehement denial, he quickly added, “It’s about someone else.”

“But you write about being touched by your lover’s healing hands, and I thought you must be speaking of a man of medicine—oh,” Combeferre caught himself, realizing who the subject actually was. “Oh, Jehan,” he sighed, touching his arm lightly. “I certainly cannot fault you for loving him,” he said, the first time he had referred even obliquely to his past relationship with Joly — a relationship all of their friends had known about but never acknowledged publicly..

Prouvaire looked down at his worn shoes. “I cannot imagine not loving him,” he said quietly.

Combeferre took him by the shoulders. “Then you listen to me, Prouvaire — you must tell him. Before it is too late,” he admonished him regretfully.

Prouvaire nodded. “I will — I promise.”

But the time was never quite right.

And then the barricades arose.

**  
On the evening of June 5, darkness was descending rapidly upon the insurgents — and Prouvaire was feeling restless. With emotions running high, he knew he needed to take a moment of contemplation during the seemingly interminable wait for action.

So when his friends were occupied with a discussion about the status of the gunpowder, he slipped away undetected, assuming no one would be in the wineshop. However, as he opened the door, he inhaled sharply as he recognized a familiar figure rummaging through the cluttered room.

“Prouvaire?” Joly asked, turning to look at him.

Prouvaire’s heart skipped a beat, as it always did at the sound of his friend’s congested voice. “Is everything all right?” he asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

“Everything is fine,” Joly reassured him. “I am actually looking for a mirror — I thought I saw one in here somewhere.” Joly said, without a hint of self-consciousness.

“I do not think a mirror will help you right now,” Prouvaire said with a knowing smile. Of all of their friends, Prouvaire had always been the most understanding of Joly’s idiosyncrasies — indeed, his idiosyncrasies were what he loved best about him. “Shall I check your tongue for you?” he asked knowingly.

Joly heaved an audible sigh of relief. “Would you mind?” he asked, approaching Prouvaire and sticking his tongue out at him unbidden.

Prouvaire could not help but to smile as he took Joly’s tongue between two fingers and peered at it — an intimate gesture he had done for his friend many times over the years. “I do not see anything abnormal,” he pronounced as he released Joly’s tongue. “I think you will live,” he said, attempting to adopt a light tone.

“Do you think so? Do you think we will live?” Joly asked, suddenly and uncharacteristically serious.

Prouvaire weighed his answer carefully, pointedly avoiding Joly’s gaze. “I do not know,” he said truthfully. “But I know all men must accept their fates, and if my fate is to die, then so be it. I am not afraid to die here for a cause I believe in, certainly. But there are many things I wish I could have done — books I have not read, poems I have not written.” Prouvaire swallowed hard before continuing. “Lovers I have not experienced,” he said, his eyes rising to meet Joly’s.

“You cannot regret those you have not loved, Prouvaire — you need to remember those you have loved,” Joly pointed out.

“But it is the central irony of my life that I spend my days pondering ideas writing poetry about love — and yet I have not experienced it myself. I seem to be destined to end my days alone and unloved,” he said, fumbling with the torn hem of his waistcoat. “Unlike you,” he added.

Joly snorted. “My ability as a lover is vastly overstated. Musichetta does not love me, no matter what pants Bahorel recommends I purchase to please her. Her preference is for the charms of Bossuet.”

Prouvaire could not disguise his surprise at the news. “And what about you and Bossuet? They say you share everything, you know,” Prouvaire asked, his heart suddenly quickening, wondering if all of his late night pining was misguided.

“I do know that is what they say about us,” Joly said simply. “They have been saying that about us for years. And we share meals and rooms, and for a while we both shared a love for Musichetta. But we do not share each other bodily, as the others always imply. I love Bossuet as a brother.”

“As a brother,” Prouvaire echoed hopefully, even as he felt a twinge of pity for poor Bossuet’s misfortune.

Joly nodded. “The truth is, Prouvaire, I have had a few lovers, but I am not the easiest person to love, either. It is why Combeferre and I could never really be together,” he admitted wistfully.

“That is not true, Jollly,” Prouvaire protested emphatically. “I mean, you certainly have your quirks, but we all do. But you are kind and funny and many people love you.” Prouvaire reached over and took Joly’s hand in his. “I love you,” he said, uttering the three words he had wanted to say for years. “And not only as a brother,” he added, his face aflame as he said it.

Joly was silent for what seemed like a lifetime to Prouvaire. “Oh, Prouvaire,” he finally said, reaching out and stroking Prouvaire’s face with the back of his hand. “Why did you not tell me until now? I never had any idea you felt that way.”

“I would not have expected you to know,” Prouvaire said quietly. “Why would you? You have your work and your companions in drink, and all I have are my melancholy and my books and my silly poems —”

“And that is exactly what I love about you,” Joly interrupted him.

“As a brother,” Prouvaire clarified, looking Joly directly in the eye.

Joly leaned in and kissed him on the lips — a kiss so tender Prouvaire felt his knees buckle underneath him. “No, not as a brother,” Joly murmured against his lips.

Prouvaire pushed back from him. “You do not need to do this, Joly,” he said, his defenses going up. “You do not need to lie to me to make the poor, unloved Prouvaire feel better.”

“Maybe it is not pity,” Joly replied matter of factly. “Have you thought of that? Maybe while you were gazing at me getting drunk with Bossuet and Grantaire, I was watching you huddling with Combeferre, wishing I could come over to be with you instead?”

Prouvaire pondered this for a moment. “I have a hard time believing it is true,” he admitted.

Joly kissed him again, wrapping one arm around Prouvaire’s waist and pulling him close. “Believe it,” he said softly, locking his fingers of his right hand in Prouvaire’s curls. “Let me love you, Jean Prouvaire,” he whispered in his ear.

Prouvaire felt light-headed. “Yes,” he murmured, crooking his arm around Joly’s neck, returning and deepening the kiss. They fumbled around in the darkness, tugging at each other’s clothes hungrily. Eventually Joly backed Prouvaire up against the far wall, kissing his neck as he began to undo Prouvaire’s threadbare trousers.

Joly had just dropped to his knees in front of Prouvaire when they heard the door to the wineshop open. Joly stood up immediately, brushing the dirt from his knees, as Prouvaire quickly readjusted his clothing. “Prouvaire? Are you in here?” came a voice they both recognized as Combeferre’s.

“I am,” Prouvaire called out to Combeferre. “And Joly, too,” he said, wincing slightly as he said it.

Combeferre approached them, his carbine slung over his shoulder as he looked back and forth between the two men. “We need you both outside. Right now,” he commanded. “Or when you’re done,” he added under his breath, before he walked back outside, closing the door behind him noisily.

Once they were alone again, Joly embraced Prouvaire again. “We must go,” he whispered. “It is time for us to face our fate, as you would say,” he said, pressing a kiss to Prouvaire’s forehead.

Prouvaire took both of his hands in his own. “But we will face our fate together, Jollly,” he said, an extraordinary calm settling around him as he said it. “And that will ease any pain we may feel at our passing.”

“If we die, we will die together, will we not?” Joly said, kissing both of Prouvaire’s hands.

Prouvaire smiled at him, his heart so full he thought it would burst out of his chest. “Whatever happens,” he said calmly, “I know I will not die alone.”


End file.
